


burning air, breathe her in

by Xairathan



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 22:56:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20804348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xairathan/pseuds/Xairathan
Summary: "If there is a God, surely I will be punished for this."(And then the god of war arrives)





	burning air, breathe her in

The howl of Jalter’s fire echoes distantly across the far reaches of the forest, waves of sound reaching where the rolling flames did not. The timbre of her voice vibrates in the quiet that follows, the shout that had raced both flames and stakes towards the open sky- _ Roar,O Rage of Mine! _

Jalter’s partner, a new Lancer called a few days ago, steps into the smoldering crater her Noble Phantasm leaves behind, picking at slightly charred embers with gloved fingers, tucking them into the pockets of her robes. Jalter is already moving off through the forest, branches and leaves crackling under her heels, as much disinterested in the new Servant as searching for a new target to visit her wrath upon.

When the Lancer catches up to Jalter, she asks, “Do your fires always have to burn so hot?” Her expression is a perpetual smile, never wavering; Jalter’s never seen her without it. It doesn’t scare Jalter- she isn’t afraid of anything, she boasts of herself- but she can be unnerved. Everything about the Lancer seems wrong, even if Jalter can’t place a reason to it.

A friendlier Servant might have said, _ It’s to vent off steam. You’ll understand once you’ve been here a while. _

Jalter bares pointed teeth and snaps, “Unless you want to start pulling your weight, how about you shut your mouth?”

The Lancer only smiles and nods, takes the lead in hacking their way through the heavy underbrush with a katana. Jalter sets her teeth on edge, following reluctantly, glaring at the Lancer’s back with a grimace hot enough to match the sun bearing through the treetops.

A flash of gold, a smattering of silver. Jalter’s lifted her banner by the time the Lancer is finished with the trio of enemies they’d stumbled upon, gracefully plucking glowing golden crystals from their fading bodies.

The Lancer looks up, still smiling, and Jalter wonders for a fleeting second if she’s hoping to be praised.

What she gets is a snarl and a narrowing of Jalter’s eyes, her banner lashing out to carve bark from a nearby tree. “Fine! You can go gather the rest, then!”

The Lancer just stands there stares, smiles. Jalter feels her eyes upon her back as she storms back the way they came to the extraction point. What she doesn’t know is what the Lancer’s seen- dark blurs against pale skin, inching along the edges of her stockings, creeping up her shoulders and peeking out beneath her hairline, the scars of a death not truly her own that return to haunt her whenever she calls, as unshakeable as the anger that drives her heartbeat, a war drum pounding out the maddened cadence to which she marches.

* * *

The Lancer’s name is Uesugi Kenshin, or Nagao Kagetora, the Dragon of Echigo, avatar of the god of war Bishamonten. Jalter’s first thoughts, equally divided between what to call her—_Kenshit, Bitchamonten, something else?__—_ and the fact that _this is no fucking dragon_, are shattered by Da Vinci informing Jalter that this will be her new partner.

_ What am I supposed to do, when you keep burning everyone else we assign to you? _

Kagetora is taller, which Jalter immediately hates. Anyone who looks down on her should get burned. She’s got three dumb streaks of black sticking out against snow-white hair, and Jalter wonders if she might be able to get the rest black too, if she chars Kagetora enough.

Then she sees the smile, and her blood chills in a way she hasn’t felt since Orleans.

“No way,” she says. “I’m not fucking working with her.”

“Everyone else is already assigned or someone you’ve burned,” Da Vinci tells her. “It’s her, or you stay in Chaldea for the next rotation.”

“Fine!” Jalter snaps. She wheels off, heels grinding into the metal flooring with every step she takes down the corridors. It’s not enough; she can feel the hatred squirming beneath her skin, but she can’t unleash it here. A sharp cry, the ringing of an armored fist on cheap steel plating. Someone will come along and find a dented section of wall, but what can they do about it- desummon her?

That might actually be a mercy. Anything but working with that Lancer; anything but working with a partner who can’t stop fucking smiling, just like damn Gilles in damned Orleans; anything to free herself from the cold tremor edging outwards from her spine, slowly strangling the inferno boiling over in her gut.

* * *

One rotation is two weeks; in one week, Jalter goes out three of those days: twice to help Kagetora hunt Archer embers, the final time to bring back whatever they find. Each time, it’s a new forest. Each time, Jalter burns her way through it, finding solace as much as satisfaction at the smoke that curls in the wake of her steps, a cape to replace the one she’d shed long ago. Kagetora tags along behind her, always smiling, occasionally punctuating her glances with a tilt of her head or some wayward comment.

Today’s is, “Why are you an Avenger?”

“Why can’t you get it through your thick skull that I don’t want to have a conversation?”

“You seem better suited as a Berserker.” A flutter of knowing beneath her ever-upturned mouth. “Could it be you’re really a Berserker wearing another class?”

“Where’d you even think of that from?”

“You lack restraint.”

Jalter spins around, grabs a fistful of Kagetora’s robes, pulls her down to eye level. If her other hand wasn’t devoted to keeping a grip on her banner, she’d reach up and smack that smile straight off Kagetora’s face.

(She’d try.)

“Oh, so you think because I don’t bother holding back, I must be one of those crazies. Is that it?” Kagetora nods, and Jalter’s fire flares beneath her skin, an instinctive reaction that Jalter clamps down on. She isn’t going to prove Kagetora’s point, refuses to be that infernal force of nature that Gilles had wished for. But the heat was there: it’s settled in the metal of her armor, enough heat radiating from her gauntlets that any other Servant would have pulled away.

Instead, Kagetora’s smile simply broadens, and in that motion lies a flicker of the first genuine emotion Jalter’s seen from Kagetora.

“You’re just as fucked up as I am,” she says, the revelation tight upon her throat like a vise.

The crushing silence and suddenly empty smile that meet her are all the answer Jalter needs.

* * *

She is born Nagao Kagetora to a family under the Uesugi banner; she dies Uesugi Kenshin, having never understood the humans she walked among all her life. With the legendary strength and combat prowess associated with a god comes the distance and inhuman loneliness that accompany it, and so the struggle of life and death becomes her domain, the only place where she might hope to bridge the insurmountable gap between herself and the men she commands.

Being feared, being hated, those are things Kagetora can comprehend. What puzzles her is the enigma of her partner: an Avenger who lashes out with all the rage of a Berserker, and yet is not truly as unhinged as one, whose target seems to be the world itself. Such anger might seem divine in scale, were it not for but one simple thing.

Jalter fears Kagetora too, and therefore, she must be human.

But she is human in a way Kagetora has never seen before. Those who hated her in life fought her, and then fled from her. Jalter has yet to be absent for one of their assigned missions, begrudgingly staying close enough for Kagetora to know where she is, content to throw meaningless words at her and watch them splash off her like fire on stone. That, her persistence, is what Kagetora decides must set Jalter apart as an Avenger: a willing stubbornness that in a Berserker would only be wasted as rabid and thoughtless attacking.

It’s amusing to Kagetora, the way Jalter blazes her way through the world, so much so that a clenched fist beneath her chin and a heat like Kyoto’s summer sun from it does nothing but pique her interest.

Jalter speaks, and in her voice are the familiar chords of fear and hatred, and one she doesn’t know. It isn’t a matter of comprehension, but of recognition— Kagetora can’t place a name to the sound, or even recall if she’s heard it before. Instinct takes over, her smile correcting itself, falling into proper alignment.

And then Jalter is turning away, not anger on her face, but something well known to Kagetora. She has often wished to understand those humans she protects, and now more so than ever, if only to know whether the disappointment Kagetora feels has the same flavor as that which is etched into Jalter’s scowl.

* * *

The fire dies down, leaving a circle of scorched grass and stripped trees, burned down until they’re nothing but blackened husks with crystalline coal skins. Jalter lowers her sword with a flourish, sneering at Kagetora. “Controlled enough for you?” she sneers.

Kagetora doesn’t answer immediately, stepping between charred spires twisting towards a now meaningless sun, spear raised in a ready position. A sharp stab makes quick work of the construct writhing in the dirt, and Kagetora retrieves its ember before addressing her seething companion with the one word she didn’t want to hear- “No.”

“Yeah?” There’s the gentle tap of metal on metal, Jalter shifting her weight, a clear indication in any other person of intent to attack. In Jalter, it’s purely defensive posturing; _ intent _is not a concept compatible with Jalter’s rage. “Now what’s wrong with me, Kenshit?”

“You made it too weak.”

“If you think fire is so easy to work with, why don’t you show me how it’s done?”

“Why would I bother with something like that?” Kagetora’s smile widens, and with it returns the crazed gleam in her eyes that Jalter catches the rare glimpse of in the instant before Kagetora throws herself into a fight. “I am Echigo’s god of war. Everything I need rests in my body and my weapons.”

“You’re no god,” Jalter scoffs, jabbing a finger at Kagetora. “I’ve seen gods, and they give even less of a damn about things than you do. If you really were one, you never would’ve agreed to be stuck with me.”

Kagetora goes still, eyes vacant, smile quivering with indecision, and for a moment Jalter thinks she’s finally won. There’s one way to strike at the root of any god, and that’s questioning their power. Whatever fear Jalter might feel is buried beneath the excitement roaring through her blood, pride rearing its head in her chest that she’s finally found some way to unsettle Kagetora.

But Kagetora’s smile chooses a form, relief emanating from it in waves that collapse the foundations of Jalter’s rising glee. “Do you really think that?” she asks, and for the first time, there’s something lurking beneath that carefully measured tone.

“Why? You gonna condemn me to whatever hell you believe in if I do? ‘Cause you’re already too late for that.”

Kagetora shakes her head, her features softening into a happy little grin, something Jalter had thought impossible to see without the haze of battle distorting it. “Good,” she says, and moves off between the trees as if she’s said nothing unusual, as if the Avenger she leaves behind isn’t staring slack-mouthed at her departure, as if her simple words haven’t rattled Jalter’s world more than any number of lost friendships and burned bridges could.

* * *

Gudako and Da Vinci implemented the partner system after the Orleans singularity had been fixed, citing the number of casualties as the reason. In effect, it’s Jalter’s own fault that she spends so much of her time cooped up in Chaldea, her fury crying out within her for release, fed fresh hatred with every passing day. She’d never utter it aloud, but Jalter yearns to be useful, to prove her fire can be used to do more than just destroy. Usually she’d be partnered with some iteration of the Black Saber, but they are reliable servants and thus are given the longer assignments, ones Jalter would never be invited on.

Da Vinci tries pairing her with others: the Count of Monte Cristo she drives off with his True Name; the Berserkers, she flat out refuses to work with. They’ll run in the way of her fire, she says, when they have to be resummoned it’ll be her fault, and she doesn’t want to put up with that bullshit. She won’t team up with anyone from France, not when they’ll only see her as ‘the other Jeanne’. That leaves her with a steadily dwindling pool of candidates, some who find a steady partnership with another Servant, others who tire of Jalter’s sharp tongue and her flames dancing uncomfortably close.

Eventually, she’s left with no one.

That’s what she wanted- after all, it was inevitable. Who would ever trust a twisted mockery of a holy saint, whose body is betrayal and whose heartbeat sings for vengeance?

So Jalter learns the interior of Chaldea, every hall and empty room to hide in, until she knows it well enough to walk her paths with her eyes closed.

She learns, too, about herself: how long she can hold out until her fire reaches its peak and she goes howling out into the ever-raging blizzards, how heavy and bitter her grudges are against her tongue, how much worse the incessant taste of loneliness is as her shouts rampage through corridors as empty and barren as the grave Gilles had tried to raise her from.

* * *

The faint curl of smoke dissipating against cloudy skies reminds Jalter of Kagetora’s hair, and her hand twitches for her sword. Kagetora, robes laden with embers, stops at the edge of the designated extraction point, waiting for Jalter to catch up. Her eyes do that thing, a slight twitchy narrowing that Jalter knows means she’s noticed something, and will likely say something about it.

Jalter beats her to it, pulling her sword from its scabbard, holding it out at the forest. “We’re leaving,” she huffs, leveling the blade at the nearest tree. “So it won’t matter to you if I burn it all down.”

“Why would you do that?” There’s no condemnation in Kagetora’s tone, unexpected for someone titled the god of war. For all her adherence to morals and decorum, Kagetora’s not as tightly strung as she would like to make herself out to be.

“Why the fuck should you care?” Flickering orange laps at the underside of Jalter’s sword, leaping beseechingly towards heaven. Kagetora wouldn’t understand even if Jalter tried to explain; if Kagetora can’t even feel something as basic as anger, how could she comprehend the insatiable hunger that plagues Jalter’s every waking moment, that if given the opportunity, would just as gladly consume the entirety of the forest as much as Jalter herself? “I just want to.”

Kagetora blinks- her smile thins- “If it really makes you feel better, do what you will.” She’s stepping into the extraction point before Jalter can respond, the gold and blue of the rayshift carrying her off towards the sun; a shimmer, and she’s gone.

Jalter follows after her, but not before she’s screamed her throat sore and smeared her armor black with soot, not before she makes the forest her pyre and the sky a reflection of her soul. She pours out everything within her and more, until she’s left empty and falling back into the embrace of the rayshift, wondering if this is what it might be like to be Kagetora, to be divine, to be her original.

* * *

Jalter has never shared a dream with Gudako, and the reason is easy for her to guess. Gudako’s soul would never find itself consigned to the hell that visits Jalter in her dreams, not every night, but after every use of her Noble Phantasm without fail.

In the dark of her room, she finds it hard to tell if she’s awake or if she’s still bound to the stake, billowing smoke obscuring her vision and drawing tears from her eyes. Unbound hands claw at swollen eyes, at unburned flesh, at the scars raised upon her skin, fading slowly and likely gone by morning. Now is the only time their presence is welcome: they anchor Jalter in the present, where _ Jeanne d’Arc is already dead _ and _ Jeanne Alter never burned alive_.

No, that’s not true, the last part. She burns every time she draws her blackened sword, reminders of a death she never died etched along her body, but at least the fervor of her fire is just that, hers. In her dreams, whether she’s dying or calling down the flames herself, the body she occupies is not hers to move; it’s her original’s, it’s Gilles’, and the inferno she’s trapped in rakes away at her with brilliant tongues until not even ash is left and she opens her eyes, hair and blankets plastered to her skin, jaw sore from grinding down.

A single thought flits between the fleeting confusion of waking and the swirl of reality asserting itself, a smile amidst mingling white and black.

Jalter curls up against herself, clutching her pillow to her chest, deep breaths dragging the lingering scent of charred wood and the ache of heat blistering her skin back to the forefront of her mind.

Why the hell she’d thought of Kagetora is something Jalter doesn’t want to consider further, not even to ask herself why. In the solitude of her room, she accepts it, still too proud to admit that she’d for a moment wished that it was Kagetora she’d taken hold of, too rattled to stop herself from hating the absence of a partner she knows is only bound to her side by duty and nothing more.

* * *

Another week, another cycle. Kagetora stands near the back of the command room, watching her fellow Servants mill about in groups. This is standard procedure as far as she’s aware; it’s only the fourth time she’s seen this happen, but the seeming chaos of this whole affair is slowly making itself clear to her. Servants who knew each other in life are most likely to pair up together, followed by those who formed close friendships while contracted to Chaldea.

And then there’s Jalter, pushing her way through the throng, shoving up to Da Vinci at her console and announcing her presence with a clatter of her armored gauntlets against the metal housing the screens.

Kagetora doesn’t hear what words the Alter says, nor does she care. She continues to watch the tangle of Servants sort itself out, the Knights of the Round pairing off into groups different from the last cycle’s; a certain familiar-looking Archer will be dragging her companion Saber over to Da Vinci at any moment now; two Egyptian pharaohs peel off from the pack, the third who’d drawn the short straw opting to sit out this round of assignments.

Everything here falls into such neat patterns, so why can’t Kagetora understand these Servants, not a single one of them? What compels the Knight of Treachery to chase after his father’s steps every time they come together? What bond compels Raikou, a god in her own right, to care so strongly for her weaker comrades?

Kagetora does what she’s supposed to do- watches over them all with a smile, never once expressing her hidden desire to be among them, not venerated but accepted, not feared but embraced. She is, after all, the god of war, set apart from mankind, a being who feels no desire other than that which calls her to march into battle.

Lost in her thoughts, Kagetora loses sight of Jalter between the many taller Servants. She doesn’t see the small Avenger until there’s an impact against her body, Jalter wrapping both arms around one of Kagetora’s. “Da Vinci says you’re with me again,” she grumbles, the sour note in her voice in stark contrast with the way her hands cling to Kagetora’s shoulder. “The usual assignment.”

“I see.” Kagetora starts to move off towards the exit, finds herself rooted in place by Jalter’s grip. “What is it?”

“You’re not getting away from me,” Jalter mutters. “Not before I’m done with you.”

“And when is that?”

“Don’t fucking know.” Jalter’s eyes dart away from Kagetora, sweep over the shifting crowd. No one pays her any mind, which is exactly what she wants. Let them squabble over who gets to be partners this cycle while she basks in Kagetora’s company, in this rare moment when Kagetora has nothing to go to war with and Jalter has something that she for once doesn’t wish to burn.

Kagetora tilts her head, the furthest she’ll go to show confusion. Slightly widened eyes take in Jalter’s gaze, reluctant to wander anywhere near Kagetora, and the defensive hunch of her shoulders. All of this is just data; none of it tells her what to do- Kagetora scours her memory- yes, that might be it, something she’d seen the King of Knights do to her son. Kagetora adjusts her stance, raises her arm, pats the top of Jalter’s head with her free hand several times. The Alter bristles, all teeth but no fangs, something Kagetora understands to be instinctual, Jalter’s innate response to a touch that gentle. Kagetora persists, and Jalter turns away soon enough, content to lean against Kagetora and watch the room slowly empty until it’s just the two of them in their corner, standing still as Da Vinci turns the lights out, after which Jalter’s fingers carefully wind through Kagetora’s to help guide her out towards the golden beam protruding through the crack in the doors.

* * *

They don’t make it back to the forest after all. A passage to the next Lostbelt unravels in the Sea of Imaginary Numbers, and through it comes a surge of energy so intense that the systems in the command room overload all at once, Da Vinci herself failing to glean a tangible number from the attack. From that, Gudako says to expect a landing in the Age of Gods, and so for once Jalter is tapped as part of the preliminary team- to deal with any Rulers or dragons, Kagetora surmises.

Kagetora herself remains behind, an unwelcome avatar of a foreign god whose domain would only feed whatever conflict is to come. Now she lingers in a Chaldea packed full with those Servants that weren’t chosen to come along, wandering halls abuzz with worried speculation and chatter, clumps of Servants clogging narrow doorways and sneaking long glances into the command center in passing. It reminds Kagetora of her years spent marching to war, wandering through rows of tents and throngs of men devoted to her, yet who’d avert their eyes in equal amounts respect and fear as she passed.

The air grows thick with anxiety, hanging low over hurried exchanges of whispers and the days winding longer and longer, no reports coming back from the Lostbelt, no indication of when Gudako might be back. Even Kagetora can’t ignore the worry gathering like storm clouds, threatening to boil over, even if she can’t see why- thinking of Gudako won’t help her return any faster; if anything, these Servants should have more faith in the person they address as Master.

But even if Gudako’s absence doesn’t bother Kagetora, Jalter’s does. The days feel a little longer, and Kagetora catches herself straining to hear the ever welcome rumble of Jalter shouting something from afar. Too often she finds herself disappointed by the too-similar lilt of Jeanne’s voice, too soothing to be Jalter’s, but hitting the register and pitch that sends Kagetora’s pulse racing for that split second before she rounds the corner.

The first week lapses, and at its end, a realization, born from silent walks among Servants to whom Kagetora is no one but the god of war: that perhaps they, for all their power, also look to the one person who might have any hope to understand them, that human or god, their loneliness is one and the same.

* * *

Gudako’s guess was only half right. There are gods, but no Rulers, and one such god bears down on their group now, weapon held high overhead, aureate power spreading in a glowing nimbus that races towards Gudako and her assembled Servants, threatening to overrun them. Jalter sees Gudako clench her jaw, no time to formulate a counterattack save for perhaps one quick Command Spell. After that, the god will be upon them, and all that power’s fury.

Jalter’s eyes ignite with malice, staring defiantly at the onrushing herald of their death. She pushes past Gudako, ignores her shout, stabs her banner into sodden earth and grasps for her sword. Her fire is potent, but unbridled, unfocused; it yearns to devour whatever lies in its path so long as it’s of this world that Jalter loathes. It’s nowhere near as strong as her original’s flame, the all-consuming La Pucelle, cleansing rather than damning, gold rather than tarnished red. But her original isn’t here, she is, and this is all Gudako has to work with. Jalter refuses to be the Servant that leads their master into failure.

The fire that had once hungered for a forest surges from her in a blackened wall, licking away at a seemingly endless onslaught of divine energy. Jalter’s feet slide back in the dirt, and she grips onto her banner, knees bent and straining to keep her motionless as much as the god’s attack compels her to yield her ground. The heat of her flames raises the scars from her Saint Graph to her skin, fire-woven webs of skin darkening rapidly into painful clarity under the swirling energies. Hotter, fiercer, deeper still. Jalter’s shout is more a scream, the agony of a hundred nightmares given form in a terrible sound, drowning out the groan of her armor buckling and the snap of breaking chain links.

She sees the air shimmer as the god retreats, fading against the backdrop of Jalter’s dark flame eating away the last remnants of the gods’ attack. The sight of open sky drops Jalter to her knees; she feels herself run empty, the hunger gnawing at her core sated for once, or perhaps blocked out by the chaotic symphony of her senses crying out at her, blistered skin and searing armor, blurring into a familiar darkness that greets her with a stake and pyre piled high, the abyss into which all her fire had gone, the hell that could only belong to Jeanne Alter. As she sinks into its depths, she hears what might be Gudako calling to her, voice high and faint; what might be Kagetora’s gentle hum as she tells Jalter she’s overdone herself before propping the Alter on her shoulder to carry her home.

* * *

Kagetora hates waiting. She’s always been one for action over deliberation, and so sitting in the infirmary with only her vagrant thoughts for company drives all but the faintest of smiles from her lips. She isn’t angry, though- far from it. Rather, the worry lacing the air has seeped into her very soul, driven there by the sound of klaxons in the halls and the metallic swish of the rayshift engaging, audible halfway across Chaldea.

There would be only one reason for a rayshift to happen under such conditions, and that’s if someone had to be evacuated from the Lostbelt. Kagetora had heard of such stories in passing in the mess hall, but never much of them until that moment. Idle curiosity drove her to the door of the command room, a white and black speck bobbing among a sea of Servants, some drawn there by fear, others for the same reason as Kagetora.

Stuck behind the spiked pauldrons of a towering black-armored Saber, all Kagetora glimpsed was the red of Nightingale’s coat turned sticky and dark, the pale hand draped limp over the side of the gurney, the sprig of hair that Kagetora has seen so much of, distinctive and instantly recognized.

When the Servants in front of her hadn’t moved quickly enough for her liking, Kagetora showed them why she was feared as the Dragon of Echigo in her lifetime.

Now she grips the rail of the infirmary bed harder than she’s ever held one of her own weapons, metal creasing beneath her gloves, her usual impassive void roiling with some foreign emotion. She wonders if this might be how Jalter’s fire feels when it rips free from her control, rolling equally over her own skin and the battlefield before her, indiscriminate in its destruction. Below, Jalter pulls another shuddering breath, her eyes fluttering open as she crosses the threshold back into the waking world.

Of course the first thing Jalter would try is sitting up, golden eyes gleaming with reflections of the fire that sent her here. Kagetora catches her carefully by her shoulders, pushes her firmly back against the pillows. Jalter comes out of her nightmare clawing at what should be empty air, grabs on to Kagetora instead.

Clarity returns to her, and in the space of a single breath lies all of Jalter’s vulnerability laid bare: the scars that climb her arms up to her shoulders, vanishing beneath the gown Nightingale dressed her in, put there by flames that scorched her and her dreams alike. Then Jalter snarls and swings at Kagetora’s arms, trying to bat her away. “The hell are you doing here?” she growls, watching Kagetora’s smile grow. How irritating- not only will she have that mad nurse hovering over her, now Kagetora will be telling her not to push herself, as she always does. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Get lost!”

“Are you done?”

“With what?”

“You said I wouldn’t be rid of you until you were done. Have you accomplished what you intended?”

“What- ugh, I didn’t mean that literally!” Jalter winces, her labored gasps betraying the toll even the pretense of anger takes on her worn body, still recovering from being nearly burned to cinders. “Fuck, fine- you can stay, but you’d better not piss me off.”

“What happened?” Kagetora’s hands slowly lift one of Jalter’s, slender fingers tracing upraised flesh.

“The hell does it look like? I used my Noble Phantasm, duh.”

“Just once?”

“Yeah, so?”

“What were you fighting?”

Jalter coughs, choking on her own laughter and her ash-lined lungs. “A fucking god,” she says, head thrown back and chin jabbed at the ceiling in an act of meaningless defiance. “I guess I jinxed myself all those times I said something about divine retribution coming for me.”

Kagetora’s palm crests the inside of Jalter’s elbow, settles there, fingers splaying over sensitive burn marks. The tremor of Jalter’s pulse throbs beneath her hand, picking up speed, and she murmurs, “I thought you didn’t believe that god exists.”

“Oh, I do.” Jalter shifts around, finally settling on her side, her piercing gaze leveled directly at Kagetora. “But you, you’re not a fucking god, no matter what you wanna call yourself.”

“You still think that?”

Kagetora rests her chin against the rail. Jalter looks away, instead watching Kagetora’s hand work its way back down towards her wrist. Something unknown to Kagetora flickers in her eyes, and perhaps it’s all the screaming she’d done in the Lostbelt that contributes to the rawness in her voice as she says, “Yeah. If you were a god, you’d be like all the others and want nothing to do with someone like me. But look at you— fucking sitting here waiting for me to get up like some idiot. There’s no way you’re a god.”

If God exists, then divine punishment will find her— that’s what Jalter has always said. What Kagetora does instead is wrap her hand around Jalter’s, fingers slipping between hers, warm and reassuring in a way Jalter’s own fire could never achieve. And Kagetora’s smiling- not that bemused grin that everyone in Chaldea knows her for, but something only Jalter’s seen, and will see- the fondness in her upturned lips, the creasing of the corners of her eyes.

“You’re lucky I’m still exhausted from that fight,” Jalter blusters at her. “Or I’d burn you up for looking at me like that.”

To that, Kagetora only grins more broadly, and lifts her other hand to push Jalter’s hair away from her eyes.

* * *

A week later, the command center staff leave the mess hall all at once. Those servants who hadn’t already guessed soon learn of Gudako’s return from the roar of a rayshift clamoring through the halls.

The day after that, Nightingale finally tells Jalter that she can go.

Jalter tugs her gauntlets snug against her fingers, flexes them, finds them responding to her liking. If she’s lucky, Da Vinci will still be in the command center, still giving out or perhaps maybe not having even started the process of reassigning Servants to their tasks. A worn grimace tugs at her lips— that’s a good joke; she’s the Dragon Witch, unlucky as they come, and the practical stampede of Servants she’s heard passing by outside only confirms what she already suspects.

Jalter emerges to find Kagetora already lingering nearby, sitting cross-legged against the opposite wall. The slant of her smile- higher than normal, and genuine- puts Jalter on her guard, even though she’s the one with the advantage of height for the moment.

“The hell are you smirking at?” Jalter towers over Kagetora, tapping an armored foot. “Why aren’t you off with everyone else bothering Da Vinci?”

“Good morning,” Kagetora replies, automatic and flat. Then- “I already saw Da Vinci.”

“Oh.” Jalter stumbles verbally, mouth gaping, jaw working uselessly as she reaches for words that won’t come to her. Of course she should’ve anticipated this. Two weeks is long enough for even the most patient of Servants to get bored, and Kagetora wouldn’t be hard pressed to find companionship elsewhere if she looked for it. Jalter’s hands, which at some time unknown to her had formed into fists, tremble against her sides. Kagetora’s eyes are upon her, so she growls out a meager, “Who’re you with now?”

“I requested our usual arrangement.”

“Yeah, you’d be stuck with someone like- hey, what?!” Kagetora giggles, a flashing of teeth slipping through into her smile, and Jalter stamps her foot in front of where Kagetora sits. “Wh-who the hell do you think you are? You don’t ask to get partnered with me, I do! Who said I was okay with that, huh? Did you even think to ask me before you went running off? Hey, stop laughing like that! I’ll burn you for this!”

“No, you won’t.”

“I really will!” Jalter reaches down, taking Kagetora’s robes into her fist. “I’ve burned people I’ve liked more for stupider reasons.”

“Oh, that means you like me?”

“Ahhh!” Jalter pushes Kagetora into the wall, and is met with even more laughter. Kagetora gets to her feet, dusting herself off, still smiling— not that carefully cultivated leer, but a true display of happiness, and her gaze is still fixed on Jalter.

“Regardless of how you feel, I enjoy your company.” Kagetora fiddles with the sash tied around her waist, something to busy her hands with. “You aren’t afraid of me like some of the others. You don’t act like you think I’m the avatar of a god.”

“You mean you actually like that shit?” Jalter sneers at her with a roll of her eyes. “Wow, you’re even more desperate than I am, aren’t you? Well, too bad. I barely put up with you as it is. Now that you’ve gone and put me in a bad mood, I’ll be sure to burn you the first chance I get. We clear on that, Kenshit?”

“You can try.” Kagetora steps closer, wraps her arms under Jalter’s shoulder. Her response is implied: try, and Jalter will only succeed in taking herself down, too. That thought is quickly lost amidst the rushing of blood to Jalter’s cheeks and her attempts to extricate her arm from Kagetora’s hold, her heated protests and the blush igniting on her face the closest her fire would ever dare get to burning Kagetora, the thought of whom settles Jalter’s wrath long enough for a different type of flame to kindle in its stead.

* * *

In a surprising show of self-restraint, Jalter does not immediately set the forest on fire when they rayshift into it. She keeps herself contained until the end, when Kagetora notices Jalter’s hand rested firmly upon the hilt of her sword, fingers twitching around the pommel as if itching to draw and use it.

“I think this is enough,” Kagetora says, checking her pockets. “Certainly enough for the new Servants Master brought back with her.”

“Don’t remind me.” Jalter waves her other hand aimlessly in the air. “One of them tried talking to me after dinner last night, so I burned them.”

“Do you burn everyone who attempts to speak to you?”

“When they’re being that casual, yes!”

“So what would this be?” Kagetora gestures at them both with a sweeping of her spear.

“This is different!”

“And yet I recall you saying that you’d try setting me on fire if you were given the opportunity.”

“God, were you always this annoying, or did you get worse while I was gone?” Jalter catches herself drawing closer to Kagetora, glaring up at her, stabbing her banner in the ground next to where Kagetora rests the haft of her spear. “It’s still not too late,” she mumbles. “I’ll fucking burn this place and leave you here to deal with it.”

“Is that a threat, or a promise?” Kagetora smiles, an upward quivering of her lips, and that’s the final straw. Something sparks in Jalter’s chest; she reaches up, grabs the collar of Kagetora’s armor and yanks her down by it, crushes their mouths together with just a hint of teeth. Kagetora’s sigh ghosts over her cheek, warm and wet, and her hands find a place to settle against the sides of Jalter’s neck, where the rapid cadence of her heartbeat tells Kagetora everything Jalter herself won’t.

Jalter knows she shouldn’t linger for long, but she does anyway. Even with their armor bumping and getting in the way, Kagetora’s body fits snug against hers, and there’s a _ rightness _ to all this that Jalter can’t deny, perhaps the irony of someone like her laying hands on someone who claimed to be, and was venerated as a god.

It’s Jalter who needs air first, and in that space of rapidly taken breaths and the heat coming off her cheeks, Jalter says, “There. You got off easy this time. Don’t try and make me mad again.”

“What if I want to see you do better?” Kagetora tilts her head, and her little smile is a bolt of lightning straight to Jalter’s heart. Those unspoken fears- that Kagetora would have partnered with someone else, that she would be driven off- were all for naught. Now it all starts to make sense- how could Kagetora be pushed away in anger if she’s incapable of feeling it; how would one go about filling a void left empty for so long? Kagetora doesn’t just enjoy the little flares of Jalter’s temper, she hungers after them, after Jalter, in an envy shared by both gods and men.

So Jalter surges forward again, lets Kagetora take her weight, kisses her with the ravenous drive of fire racing over dried brush, pours herself into an abyss that meets her with equal fervor, that cradles her face with as much crushing strength as tender pressure. That urge to devour with flame will never leave Jalter, but she can pass it on; Kagetora might never feel the true breadth of emotion, but she can take on Jalter’s, and from that tangled union of lips and tongue arises, like smoke, their mutual understanding: that the loneliness they have long endured ends here, in the embrace of the other.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic once again dedicated to all my co-conspirators at Jaltora headquarters and to the fic idea I got while writing this fic therefore making this my warm-up


End file.
